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PICTURES FROM THE 
PYRENEES 

CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

AN 

ACCOUNT OF A JOURNEY 

FROM ITALY TO ENGLAND 

AUGUST, 1914 

AND 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

BY 

MARGARET COPE 




Philadelphia 
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY 

1922 






Copyright y ig22^ by 
Margaret Cope 



APR -6 '23 

CIA704062 



lyv^'*^ 



% 



Bebttatton 

To the memory of my brother Alban, whose 
intense love of nature and its expression in 
verse, though an invalid unable to voice it, 
was to me inspiring (a soul set free at last 
from the prison bars of flesh), I lovingly dedi- 
cate these verses written shortly after his 
death. 



J^tttfiDr's preface 

This little book of unpretentious verse is 
published for those who like myself love 
nature and art, and the thoughts that they 
inspire in us. 

To all these it is an open book — to others 
it is sealed, even though they lift the cover — 
and to them I make no apology; only hoping 
it may find a little place in the hearts of some 
of my relations and friends, and among my 
many unknown friends scattered over this 
wide world who have the understanding 
heart. 

It has taken the form of a diary of pictured 
scene and thought during that eventful 
summer of 19 14 when many of us found we 
were alone in foreign lands in the unexpected 
cataclysm of the horrible World War. 

M. C. 
Awbury, Germantown^ 
Aug, lOy 19.22. 



That so when I am gone I may not question 
IJ all my wanderings had been spent in vain. 
But from a grateful heart had given to others 
The quiet spirit of the past again. 



Content0 



PAGE 

REMINISCENCES OF WINTER 
OF 1910 

Called Back . 13 

Convalescence 14 

Epilogue .16 

PICTURES FROM THE 
PYRENEES 

The Valley 17 

A Rest by the Roadside 17 

Above the World 18 

A Look Backward 18 

By the Roadside 19 

Light and Shade 20 

An Evening Tryst 20 

To the River Cadi 21 

Hay Making 22 

To THE Little Rivulet 23 

On the Mountain 25 

Thanksgiving 26 

A Bit of Color 27 

The Quiet Hour 27 

Into the Valley 28 

The Secrets of the Morn 30 

Morning Praise 31 

"I Will Lift Up Mine Eyes" ... 32 

After Glow 32 

Early Morning Joys ^^ 

Memories 35 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Climbing Heavenward ^(i 

A Farewell 37 

Continuity 38 

Understood 39 

CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

St. Nazaire, in "La Cite", Carcas- 
sonne 41 

St. Nazaire 41 

A Simple Picture 42 

Carcassonne, "La Cite" 44 

Light and Shade 46 

To My Brother Walter 47 

Avignon 49 

Avignon's Lord 49 

Languedoc 50 

Mounting 51 

Le Pui 52 

A Picture ^2 

"The Old Order Changeth". ... 54 

"Le Benediction" . 55 

The Ancient Faith 56 

l*Eglise de St. Michael 57 

"Come Unto Me" 58 

Ye Are the Temple of the Living God 58 

A Fragment — St. Laurent 59 

Statue of Jeanne D*Arc in^^Cathe- 

DRAL 59 

The Deserted Convent 60 

The Snow Peaks 62 

Le Petit St. Bernard 62 



10 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

On the Border 64 

To Shrouded Mont Blanc . ... 64 

To Mont Blanc at Dawn 65 

"He that Hath Eyes to See, Let Him 

See" 66 

Pre St. Didier 67 

Judge Not 68 

Epilogue to Verses on Jeanne d*Arc 69 

SWITZERLAND UNDER 
MOBILIZATION 

To Weeping Mont Blanc 71 

To Mont Blanc 72 

Twilight on Lake Leman 73 

Glion — Lake Geneva 74 

Switzerland after Mobilization . . 75 
Early Morning Walk to Caux from 

Glion Above Lake Geneva . . 76 
"GoD*s IN His Heaven, All's Well 

with the World" 77 

Account of Journey from Italy to 

England in August, 1914. ... 79 

ENGLAND 

"Far from the Madding Crowd". . 105 
Whitton Paddocks 107 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

England 

Twilight in a Devonshire Lane . . 109 

A Brave Life 109 



II 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Sea Dreams — ^Tintagel no 

The Lost Child 112 

"Cleave Farm" 113 

The Spirit's Sunset 115 

Clovelly 115 

TiNTERN Abbey 116 

Raglan Castle . 117 

A Walk FRO^ "Dove Cottage" to 

"Fox Howe", Grassmere ... 118 
"Ears Have They but They Hear 
Not, Neither Do They Under- 
stand" 119 

London Chimes 120 

Twilight in a Surrey Village ... 123 

"Albury Woods" 123 

A Farewell 124 

Le Coucherdu Soliel en Bretagne. 125 

Brittany 126 

Noontide at St. Cast 127 

Eventide — ^a l' Abb a ye de St. Jacut 127 
Sunset and Incoming Tide — Mont St. 

Michel, "Les DEUX Merveilles" 128 
Sunrise at Mont St. Michel . . .129 
Only the Gulls — and Me . . . . . 130 

Contrasts 132 

Immigration in 1492 132 



12 



Eemtnt0cence0 oC 223intec 
of 1910 

Calleb ^atk 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli 
The cataract plunges toward the sea; 
The spray floats up from the Ravine, 
The Temple and the cliffs between, 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli, 
In bed a traveler lay. 
She hears the roar the cataracts make, 
She feels the thunder and the quake. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli, 
As all alone she lies. 
She sees dear faces from her home. 
Dreams in a trance, that go and come 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli 
With windows open wide 
The moonlight steals across her room; 
She sees sweet fancies in the gloom 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli, 
The end seems drawing near — 
With feeble pulse and failing breath 
She lies, and calmly faces death 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 



13 



WINTER OF 1910 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli 
Hark! — in the court below, 
As voices from an angel band — 
The dear ones from a distant land 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli, 
To her it seems in Tivoli 
An answer from her God above — 
"In the Dark Valley I am Love" 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

From Tivoli, from Tivoli 
Nursed into health again 
At the good "Ospitale" where 
The good old monks' and nurses* care 
Gave life, in place of pain — 
She journeyed forth again 

From Tivoli, from Tivoli. 

ConbaleieJtence 

{Notes from *'Ospitale Tivoli'*) 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli 
The bells at daybreak ring; 
One after one the sweet refrain 
Floats softly over hill and plain — 
Then all is hushed again 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli, 
Below my window pane. 
The noise of little donkeys* feet 



14 



WINTER OF /pro 

Upon the cobbles beat, beat, beat; 
For day has come again, 
In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli, 
The little boys go singing by; 
I do not know the songs they sing, 
I only know the childish heart 
That would its gladness thus impart 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli, 
Across the street I see 
The Sanctuary where must come 
The people old for their last home. 
Tended with care by monks alone. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli, 
A bell is tolling slow — 
**A brother has gone home,** she said, 
My nurse who stood beside my bed, 
I knowing not that one was dead. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli. 

In Tivoli, in Tivoli, 

In "Ospi tale Tivoli,*' 
What can I say of things below 
Where the old monks walked to and fro? 
I cannot say. But this I know. 
That my dear nurse made all things go 
In my bright room in Tivoli. 



15 



WINTER OF igio 

epilogue 

Dear nurse that stood beside my bed, 
Your presence such sweet sunshine shed, 
That all the ills that flesh could dread 
Were chased away from Tivoli — 
From "Ospitale Tivoli." 

And when some illness comes to you. 
May the good God forever true 
Shower down the blessings due to you — 
On my good nurse at Tivoli. 



i6 



Pfctutes from tfte Pgrenee^ 

Soft hay in hay cocks piled, 

Where the green hillside slopes into the 

meadow, 
Rich woods that run down to the river Cadi, 
Where trill the thrush and blackbird all day 

long; 
Above, the rocky mountain crags — 
And higher still, half veiled by flying clouds. 
The snowy summit gleams against the grey; 
Whilst over all 
Blue shadows fall — 
And rest. 

Fernet-les-Bains 
June 21^ igi4 

aaesft bp tfie aaoabsfibe 

Soft fields of grass, and rocky mountain 

steeps. 
And fold on fold, the distant mountains, seen 

between the gap. 
Whilst ever in my ears, the Cadi, rushing 

o*er its rocky bed. 
Makes music — and the little birds singing 

their even-song 
A benediction bring. The crickets chirp — 
My thoughts fly far away — 
To Awbury! 

On the road from Castille 
VerneUles-Bains 
June 22^ igi4 



17 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Sunshine and shade, and dappled morning 

sky; 
Cloud-wreaths that circle round the moun- 
tain tops; 
Far distant, every tree casts its blue shade 
Like to some purple veil that downward 

drops. 
Here stretched at ease beneath the pines I lie, 
While my soul soars above my rocky perch; 
Far, far below the rushing Cadi roars — 
All else is still — save that some bird might 
chirp. 

High on its rocky crag— the Abbey still re- 
mains. 
But where are they who sought that spot 

remote? 
Who, climbing upward, tried a place to gain 
Nearer to Heaven — among the clouds that 

float 
High over all — yet let the sun shine down 
"Upon the evil and upon the good!" 
— ^Vanished and gone! The Abbey still re- 
mains — 
The clouds float ever in their solitude. 
Vernet-kS'BainSy 
after a morning climb 
June 2jy 1914 

^ Hook Patbtoarb 

The sun is sinking o*er the mountain's brim, 
And up the vale as far as meets the eye, 

18 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

The mountains, fold on fold, melt in the sky. 
While Vernet's Castle stands out bold and 
grim. 

Old Vernet! built upon its rugged hill, 
A safe retreat in stormy days of old! 
Castle and Church and town the tale repeat 
Of times long since gone by, when knights 
were bold. 

Gone is the sword, the arrow, and the bow; 
Gone is the Feudal Lord! — but still plod on 
The patient oxen, as they homeward go. 
Toiling that man may live — without reward. 

VerneUles-Bains 
June 26y IQT4 

^p tfie aaoabsiitie 

Little orchards sloping to the meadows, 
Little crickets chirping in the grass. 
Little brooks that babble by the roadside. 
Little girls that loiter as they pass. 

Giant cliffs that tower each side above me, 
Mountains blue against a sunset sky. 
All of nature's throbbing heart to love me. 
Bird and child and flower. Ah why should I 

Not take heart of grace, and rest contented? 
Though afar off in a foreign land. 
Every place my home, where God has granted 
Me to sec the working of His hand. 



19 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Rest contented, or if traveling onward 
Courage take for journey on the way, 
Like the Israelites, who watched undaunted 
Pillar of fire by night — of cloud by day. 

On the Castille Roady 
Vernet'les-Bains 
June 28^ igi4 

ILx^i anb ^ftabe 

The western light is flooding all the vale 
While round me shadows deepen. 
And the cliffs on either side 
A frame-work make to scenes beyond. 

So may we, when God His picture paints. 
Of light and shade, be patient in the shadow 
And content to be a frame-work to our 

brother's joy. 
Knowing His Sun will shine upon us in the 
morn. 

On the road from Castille 
Fernet-les-Bains 
June 28y ipi4 

The light is slowly creeping up the mountain 
height. 

While in the West the sun Is sinking down. 
Blue veils of mist fall with the falling night. 

And through the gorge the Cadi rushes on — 
One little cloud above the mountain tops 
Is turning rosy red, as the sun drops. 



20 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

The moon, its silver sickel turned to gold, 
Is slowly sinking in the Western sky, 

The birds, their tale of happiness half told. 
Are bidding to the day a last goodbye: — 

Evening with silent majesty comes on — 

Goodbye sweet day! Thy reign of light is 
o'er; 

Yet linger yet awhile thy tryst to keep, 

Before the dew its quiet tear-drops weep. 

And we — see thee no more. 

On Castille Roady 
Vernet-les-Bains 
June 2g, 1914 



Tumultuous river, where are thy springs Un- 
known ? 
That thou forever dashest o*er thy stones 

In joyous spray. 
Art thou not tired of racing all day long 
And singing still forever the same song 

From night till day? 

Hark ! from above the glorious nightingale 
Pours through, the night her music on the 
vale 

In cadence sweet. 
Hast thou not time to listen to her song 
But thou must ever hurry, hurry on 

In swift retreat? 



21 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Listen! she calleth through the evening cool: 
Wilt thou not rest in silent lake or pool. 

Nor onward go? 
Thou restive river! Ah, dost thou not care 
That thou forever more leavest thy mountain 

air. 
And dashest down the heat and dust to share, 
Of plains below? 

Once on the plains, thou wilt regret thy 

pranks. 
Loitering along with many a backward glance 

To where with glee 
Thou leavest thy snowy cradle on the height. 
Thou leavest thy mother's arms and bosom 

white. 
To leap and tumble on in pure delight 
To seek the sea. 

Vernet-les-Bains 
June 30^1914 



The scythe cuts swiftly through the meadow 
grass 

With steady swing; 
The father rests not from his daily task. 

While on the wing 
The lark sings ever as the clouds do pass. 

His little children follow in their turn 
To toss the hay, 



22 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Helping with him their daily bread to earn 

While all the day 
Old "Canigou" looks down from snowy 

heights. 
I hear the rhythm of the scythe which cuts 

The meadow grass, 
I hear the father whet his scythe, 

And see him pass 
His hand across his brow, 'ere he begins 

His work in silence done, with steady stroke 

Of swinging scythe — 
The only sound that mountain stillness 
broke, — 

To keep alive 
His wife and little ones, he toils all day. 

Father, I think thine is a noble life. 

Though thou may est be 
Hard-worked and poor, despised by those at 
strife 
Whom wealth sets free 
To hunt for pleasure — still eluding them. 
Vernet-leS'BainSy 
Morning near Corniella 
July 2y 1914 

tCo tiie Hittle 3aibulet 

Whither from thy mountain torrent 

Little streamlet dost thou pass. 
That I ever hear thee murmur 

Down between the parted grass? 



23 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Like some sweet thought vainly hidden 

By the words it cannot speak, 
On the blush that comes unbidden 

To the silent maiden's cheek. 

Gurgle, gurgle, by my footsteps. 

What is it thou fain wouldst say? 
Shall I seek thy hidden secret 

In yon mountain far away? 
Which from down its snowy summit 

Beckons me with hand so white 
From the clouds that kiss its forehead, 

Tempting me to scale its height? 

No! the mountain cannot tempt me, 

Though it*s fair to look upon. 
For I know its heart is icy. 

For its heart is hard as stone. 
Tm content to walk beside thee, 

Through thy pasture broad and fair. 
In the sweet scent of the hay-field 

Winnowed by the mountain air. 

Keep thy secret little runlet — 

Murmur, murmur, neath the tree, 
Down among thy parted grasses 

Where the flowers look at thee; 
Look and nod and whisper to thee. 

And at noon time comes the bee. 
Keep it close — or if thou tellest it — 

Tell thy tale to them — not me. 

VerneUleS'Bains 
July 2, 1914 



24 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

<Bn tfie iHountain 

The blooming chestnuts cast their shadows 
o'er me, 

The mountain air is blowing in my face; 
Father, I thank Thee that the way before me 

Is lighted by Thy love in every place. 

In light and shade Thou paintest well Thy 
picture 
With skillful hand, nor makest a mistake; 
Can we not trust that Master hand, whose 
nature 
Knows well from first to last what tints to 
make? 

The flowers bright are blooming mid the 
grasses, 
The grasses tall are blowing in the wind. 
The light falls softly down the mountain 
passes 
Casting blue shade from trees; Ah! who 
so blind 

That cannot see God's hand in all the picture 

The Master stroke that gives the touch 

divine 

Painting it well, that every human creature 

May look and love — and worship at His 

shrine. 

Vernet'leS'Bains 
July 4, 1914 



25 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Father, we thank Thee, as the shadows 
lengthen 

For play, and work, and rest. 
We would not have the one without the other; 

Thou knowest what is best. 

We thank Thee for the sunshine and the 
laughter. 
We thank Thee for the work that comes to 
all. 
Each for some purpose made by Thee — and 
after 
The rest that cometh as the shadows fall. 

Help us to see the humour and the gladness. 
Help us to lose ours in another's cares. 

Help us to feel alone our brother's sadness. 
Help us to feed some "angel-unawares." 

Help us to see Thy hand that paints the 

picture. 

Help us to feel Thy hand that moulds our 

clod, 

Help us to live on till some grand hereafter 

Fits us for service bright for Thee, Oh God. 

Vernet'les-Bains 
July 4, 1914 



26 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

M mt of Color 

The golden grain with heavy head 

Is nodding as in sleep! 
And right against the mountains blue 

The poppies in the wheat! 

The rivulet as I hurry down 

Still hurries in retreat, 
And still against the mountains blue 

The poppies in the wheat! 

Ah! when at night I close my eyes 

Give me that vision sweet! 
Right up against the mountains blue — 

Poppies in golden wheat! 

Down the mountain to SahorCy 

Fernet-ks-Bains 

July 4, 1914 



Wbt (©uiet ^mt 

Father, I thank Thee that the morning light 

Is soft with shadows blue, 
I thank Thee for the snowy mountain height, 

And valleys drenched in dew. 

The blooming chestnuts on my wayside path, 

The bracken and the grass, 
The little clouds that fleck the morning sky 

And let the shadows pass. 



27 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

The rivulet pouring from its mountain spring 

Still babbling o*er its stones. 
The birds above, that still Thy praises sing 

Who all creation owns. 

Thine is the kingdom, and the power is Thine 

And Glory over all! 
And we whose hearts are tuned to thoughts 
divine 

Listen — to hear Thy call. 

Sunday morning, 
Vernet-les-Bains 
July 5, 1914 

3nta tfje Vallep 

Down, down at last the rugged mountain 
steep 

Into the little lane! 
And here I rest beneath the cooling shade. 

While listen! once again 
I hear the babble of the little brook 

Singing its sweet refrain — 

"Once far away 

Cradled I lay 
Safe on my mother's arm, 

Her snowy breast 
Lulled me to rest. 

But when I woke 
With alarm, 

Tempest so wild 



28 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Frightened her child, 

And with a rush 
To be free 

Leapt I with fright, 
And through the night 

Followed my way to the sea." 

Here, here I rest, soft breezes cool my cheek 

And fan my brow; 
The little brook lulls me almost to sleep, — 

I hear it ever now 
Babbling its story o'er and o'er again. 

Too true I trow! 



Ah, mother dear. 
Why did I fear 
Safe in thy arms 
Cradled there. 
That with a leap 
Down o'er the steep 
I sought life's ventures 
To share?" — 



"No more return 
For thee I yearn 
Still on my way 
To the sea; 
What can he give 
Long as I live 
Equal to thy love 
For me?" 

29 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

I wake again, and raise my eyes to where 
The snowy peak 
Looks down into the vale, 
Her truant child as if to seek 
Babbling its plaintive tale. 

Vernet'leS'Bains 
July 6, 1914 

Wt)t Secrete of tfte ittorn 

Wandering up the narrow lane 

In the early morn, 
Down between the ivied walls 

'Mid the fields of corn, 

I hear the farmer whet his scythe 

All unseen by me; 
Poppies in among the wheat 

Make a harmony. 

With the ivy and the blue 

Of the morning sky, 
Make a picture of bright hue 

To the passer by. 

Thinking I was all alone. 

Still, I stood in thought — 
He but earns his daily bread! 

I my bread have brought 

For my breakfast by the way — 

For, for those who sleep. 
Nature will from jocund day 

Half her secrets keep. 



30 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Then the tinkle of the bells 

Of a herd of goats 
Coming up the narrow lane; 

On the air it floats; 

Music meet for those who love 

Nature's simple ways. 
And with hearts tuned from above, 

Thanks give — in morning praise. 

Vernet'kS'Batns 
July 8, 191 4 

Thanks for the "joy that cometh in thss 
morning" 

After the restful night, 
The dewy freshness all the fields adorning. 

The shadow — and the light. 

The little birds that warble in the hedgerows 

Singing their praise to Thee, 
The butterflies that flit among the flowers. 

The blooming chestnut tree. 

The sense of quiet and hush that fills the air, 

The mountains fair to see. 
And for the "peace that passeth understand- 
ing" 
For those who look to Thee. 

Vernet'les-Bains 
July 10, 1914 



31 






PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

"3 Will %iit % Mnt €vtsi" 

"Unto the hills I lift mine eyes" 

From whence then comes my help ? 
From Thee, O Lord, who made the skies, 
The earth, and e*en myself; — 

The little birds that warble round 

With morning sunshine glad. 
The fields, the trees, the shadowy hills 

In dewy freshness clad; — 

The butterflies that hover o*er 

The flowers of many hue. 
That open to the sun their hearts 

After their bath of dew; — 

The music of the thrush which sings 

His morning praise to Thee, 
The grateful shade wherein I rest 
Under the leafy tree. 

Vernet-les-Batns 
July 10, 191 4 



after (©lohi 

Clear evening sky, what peace with thee 
descends 

On hill and vale. 
The work of daylight done. 
The workmen homeward gone, — 

Stillness and rest. 



32 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Ye hills of shadowy blue — fading to grey, 

Clear cut against the sky, 
Ye crown old Vernet^s tower, 
Which marks the passing hour, 

The close of day. 

Ah! when my day is o'er, 
And upon the shore 
Of Lethe stand, 
May that clear sunset light. 
Before the dusk of night, 
Beckon me on. 

On road to Castilky 
VerneUes-Bains 
July lOy 191 4 



€arlp iMotning HTops; 

Come away! Come away 
To the fields, to the dells! 
They are making the hay. 
Ah! with fragrance it smells, 

Come away. Come away! 

Come away! Come away 
To the dew shining bright! 
See it sparkles and gleams 
In the fresh morning light. 

Come away. Come away! 

2>Z 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Come away, Come away 
To the flowers opening fast! 
To the bird on the spray 
Ere his music is past, 

Come away, Come away! 

Come away, Come away 
In the fresh morning breeze! 
Ere the sun is on high, 
And the shade on the trees. 

Come away. Come away! 

Come away. Come away! 
For the little clouds float 
Up the rough mountain gorge 
To some regions remote — 

Come away. Come away! 

Come away. Come away! 
For the music is heard 
Of the hum of the bee 
And the song of the bird — 

Come away, Come away! 

Come away. Come away! 
For the rivulets pass 
Down the mountain ravines 
Just to play in the grass 

Come away. Come away! 

Then away. Then away! 
This fresh morning to greet! 
To the scent of the hay 



34 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

In the meadows so sweet 

Away and away — 
There's no time for delay 
Come away! 

Vernet'leS'Bains 
July II, 191 4 



The long June days are drawing to a close. 
But still we hear the beauteous nightingale 

At morn and eve, — 
While hark below us in the shadowy vale 



^^ <'' ^ ^ Jl :f Sl^J JI^J A 



Cuo-koo, Cuo-koo, Cuo-koo, Cuo-koo! 

The happy thrush upon the blooming spray, 
With sweet content, her song warbles above 

In sun and shade. 
But oh, that magic sound far off I love 



i 



i 



r-fs 



3i 



2S: 



22 



Cuo-koo, Cuo-koo, Cuo-koo, Cuo-koo! 

That sound recalls to me some happy days 
In England far away on hillsides sweet, 
Far off and near; 



ZS 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 



Ah may my dreams at night that call repeat, — 



i 



■mi =i=^ 



22 



:2Zt 



3^ 



Cuo-koo, Cuo-koo, Cuo-koo, Cuo-koo! 

Vernet-les -Bains 
July 10, 1 91 4 

Climbing f^eabentoarb 

Ye little clouds that climb the mountain 
summit 

At break of day, 
Where is your resting place, what is your 
limit 

Whither away? 

"We follow up the rocky mountain gorges. 

Our race half run, 
Helped by the morning breeze that lifts us 
onward. 

To greet the Sun. 

Ah when he comes, the beauty of his smile 

Tempts us to stay 
And lingering yet awhile — without denial 

We melt away." 

So we, who still climb here the stony places 

Of life's rough way. 
Will see when morning breaks, our dear one's 
faces 



36 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

In God's clear light; 
And in eternal day- 
Sorrow will fade away. 

Vemet-ks-Bains 
July II, igi4 



jFaretoell 

Farewell "Old Vernet's" tower, 
Farewell! the parting hour 

Has come at last with pain, 
And we must go! 

Thy little streets so steep, 

Thy houses with the deep 
Overhanging eaves that keep 

The sunshine out: 

Thy little boys in smocks, 
And little girls whose frocks 

Are quaint — beneath their rosy cheeks 
And soft brown eyes: 

Thy matrons in white caps 
Whose greeting smile perhaps 

Is sweeter for a life 
Of wholesome toil: 

Thy lythesome maidens fair, 
Brown eyes and dusky hair, 

Blythesome and debonnaire 
As on they go: 



37 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Thy handsome men who work 
All day, nor ever shirk, 
With the red scarfs which mark 
The "Catalan". 

Thy patient oxen white. 
Who toil from morn till night, 
Pulling their heavy loads 
Down the steep lanes. 

Thy sheep with tinkling bells. 
Whose sound the shepherd tells 
If they are on the fells 
Or far below. 

Thy mountains from which come 

The little brooks which run, 

And rush — and wander on 
To meet the sea. 

Vemet'leS'Bains 
July 12 y igi4 



Contittttftp 

Farewell to Vernet 

I go and leave these lovely mountain scenes. 

But still 
The brooklet floweth on. 
The birds still sing upon the leafy bough 

When I am gone! 

38 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

Old Vernet's Tower will stand firm as a rock, 

Until 
The crack of doom comes on, 
The shepherds still will tend the feeding flock 

When I am gone. 

The mountains fair will look into the vale, 

As up 
The fleecy clouds trail on. 
The dew still fill the flower's chalice cup 

When I am gone. 

The sun will rise and set on pictures fair 

To see 
As year by year goes on, 
Pictures alas seen never more by me 
For I am gone! 

Vernet-IeS'Bains 
July 14, 191 4 

What does it matter, if with hearts high strung 

Singing our song 
Others not care nor see? 

God over all 
Doth answer to our call 

In perfect harmony. 

Tis He who knows; 'Tis He inspires our song 
And all day long 
We have his listening ear, 
Communion sweet; 



39 



PICTURES FROM THE PYRENEES 

He tunes our hearts — *tls meet. 
He feels — why should we fear. 

Then why not journey on, still all day long 
Singing our song 
With joyful hearts — nor care? 

Content to be 
Misunderstood, if He 
Who knows, our feelings share. 

Fon^ Romeau 
July IS, 191 4 



40 



CatljeDtal Eetierieg 

^t Mmitt. in ''%a Cite/* 
Cartas^sionne 

The massive pillars of the silent nave 
Stretch on from gloom to light, 

A picture fair of shadowed light and shade 
Of majesty and height. 

The jewelled windows shed their magic light 

Most glorious to behold, 
Of sapphire, ruby and of emerald. 

Of amethyst and gold. 

The sculptured saints above the pillars high 

Look down as earst of old, — 
But knight and warrior, prince and page and 
dame 

Have passed — with hearts as cold. 

Ear/y morning 
July 17, 1914 

^{. i8ta?aire 

The light falls softly through the jewelled 
panes 

In many colors fair 
Upon the stones trodden for centuries, 

Like rainbows resting there, 
Or colors soft woven in tapestry 

By ladies earst of old — 
Amethyst and sapphire, opal, ruby, pearl. 

Amber and gold. 

41 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

The arches rise far up in shadows dim 

Meeting in carved bosse — 
The saints look from their nitches — upon 
Him— 

The Christ upon the Cross! 
Stretched there He hangs upon the "blessed 
tree" 

As if to us He said — 
** Come unto me 1 Lay all your burdens down, 

And I will make you glad." 

Carcassonne^ 
Sunday morning 
before service 
July i8, 1914 



^ Simple 3l^itivixt 

Sweet patient face! in the Cathedral vast 
Counting thy beads, after thy life of toil! 

Dost thou not hear thy Saviour's voice at 
last? 
"Thy faith hath made thee whole." 

I know not what thy life of toil may be 
Or faith confessed! I only see thy face 

Beneath its spotless fluted cap, with eyes up- 
turned, 
Waiting thy Saviour's grace. 



42 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Bells Chiming 
Go, go in peace, thy sours re — lease 



i 



Is sure, for thou be — lie — 



-25»- 



— vest. 



^^^5P^ 



istizs 



22 



To meek in heart will God im— part 



m 



^^=F 



i 



:^ 



f 



32 



What thou in faith re cei vest. 



i 



qzzrzq: 



r^^3 



:2^=^ 



:st 



Saved by His grace 

His loving face 
Will smile upon thy sorrow 

Go in and pray 

Turn not away 
Thou knowest not the morrow. 

My ringing bells 

The music tells 
Of those who peace would borrow 

Turn not away 

Kneel down and pray 
Come in and heal thy sorrow. 



43 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Morn, noon and eve, 

I all receive 
Who come in joy or sadness. 

They enter in 

To shrive their sin 
And go in peace and gladness. 

Then go in peace 
Thy souFs release 
Is sure for thou art shriven 
To meek in heart 
Will God impart 
A sense of sins forgiven. 
Bells Tolling 
Faith 
Hope 
Love 
Joy 
Peace 
Faith Hope Love Joy Peace 



i 



e 



St, Nazaire^ 
Carcassonne 
July i8, 1914 

From massive wall and battlement and moat. 
From tower and turret and from barbizon, 

Old Carcassonne looks down since times re- 
mote 
Upon the fertile plain of Roussillon. 



44 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Roman and Visigoth and Saracen, 
Each in his day built up that fortress dread. 

Long ere the day when the Great Charle^ 
magne 
Founded his empire in the Roman's stead. 

It was a stronghold of the Barons bold 
And many a bloody scene of sv/ord and 
lance 

It saw, before the lawful kingly power 
Was centered in the majesty of France. 

It looked upon the land of Troubadours, 
Their songs were heard and loved by ladies 
fair, 
And in the stormy days of Barons* wars 
Many a knight and dame was sheltered 
there. 

Names frought with history's memories it 
knew 

In bloody times of the religious wars, 
Simon de Montfort and St. Dominic, 

And the Crusader, Raymond of Toulouse ! 

And oft the Listes were drawn in Tourney gay 
And mailed knights bore down with heavy 
lance 

Wearing their lady's glove — as if alway 
Her name to honor in the land of Fiance! 



4i 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

With pomp of heraldry and trumpets' blare, 
With mitered Bishop neath his panoply, 

With banners gay and shouts that rend the 
air, 
Proclaiming to the crowd the victory 

Old Carcassonne was gay with colors bright, 

With swords that clashed, and tramp of 

champing steed — 

— Ah! vanished quite! The moat with trees 

bedight — 

Portcullis gone! The lists a flowery mead! 

4( 4t :!: :ic ii( 

From massive wall and battlement and moat. 
From tower and turret and from barbizon. 

Old Carcassonne still looks since times remote 
Upon the quiet plain of Roussillon. 

Evening 
July i8y 191 4 

Htgfit anil ^tiabe 

With radiant light the sunshine comes and goes 

In the Cathedral vast. 

Through many a jewelled pane; 
On floor and walls of nave and aisle it glows — 

Then darkens once again — 

The glory past! 

We kneel in prayer; — and once again our eyes 
Are lifted up on high — 
Ah! Once more it is there, 

46 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

And glistens fair as dew drops from the skies. 
As if again to vie 
With rainbows fair. 

The saints look down the glory to behold 

In choir and nave and aisle 

Reflected back and forth; 
Ah, Christ! Make us Thy "Inner Light" to 
crave 

That brightened by Thy smile 

We may go forth! 

I turn to go — 

Feeling the inspiration given 
By one whose life 

Overshadowed here below — 
Now glows — in heaven. 

Farewell service before leaving for Avignon^ 
Sunday morning. 

Cathedral of St, Nazaire, 

Carcassonne 

July 20y ip/4 



Wo Mv Ptotfier Ualtet 

Thou Architect who wroughts*t in stone thine 
epitaph 

In buildings fair to see. 
My spirit follows thine through this old France 

In perfect harmony. 



47 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

'Twas thou who taughtest my eyes to love 

Proportions fair, 
The grand Cathedrals with their buttresses 

Soaring in air; 

The manor-houses, with their old tiled roofs, 

Walled in with massive gate; 
The cheerful peasants who still till the fields 

Early and late. 

The villages with queer, o'erhanging roofs 

And stately Tower, 
Whose carillon far up above tells them 

The passing hour; 

The old Chateaux and Castles on the hill, 

Seen at a glance 
As on I go — proclaiming still 

The majesty of France. 

Ah! well in early days thy pencil wrought 

In pictures fair 
To trace, with lines exact, the scenes thou 
sought 

And hold them there. — 

And they are ever there! But thou art gone! 
Perhaps in regions fair — beyond the moon 
Thou still art set God's works to trace 
In heaven's clear air. 

On train from 
Carcassonne to Avignon 
July 20y 191 4, 

48 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Thou grand old Papal Palais, words cannot 

describe 
Thy majesty and beauty — seen against the 

sky! 
With the descending sun flushing thy noble 

face, 
Turning the grey to gold and amber 
Up against the blue. 

Thy great machicolated towers reaching to- 
ward heaven. 
Thy massive buttresses, where lurk the 

shadows dim, 
Thy creamy stone crumbling with age — 
That takes the light and softened shades 
Of passing day — and fades 
Into the night. 

Sunset 

July 20y igi4 

^U%mxC^ Xorb 

Philipe le Bel, 
The powerful king of France, 

Placing his Popes 
Where he could watch them well, 

Philipe le Bel! 

Philipe le Bel! 
His tower across the Rhone 
Watches the Papal Towers 

Of Avignon — 

Philipe le Bel!] 



49 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Philipe le Bel! 
What things on earth shall last? 

The king is gone. 
The Papal power is past — 

All things must die: — 

But still to-day live on 

The Royal Papal Towers 

Of Avignon; 
And o'er the other side 
Of the swift flowing Rhone, 
Watching them as of old. 

Though he is gone, 

The massive Tower 

Of the old French king 
Philipe le Bel! 

July 22y igi4 

Eattgueboc 

Thou happy land of Languedoc, 

Land of romance. 
What other place can give more joy 

In dear old France. 

Land of the Troubadour who sang 

His music sweet, 
Tuning his golden harp — unstrung — 

His lady's ear to greet. 

Ladies the fairest seen, for whose 

Sweet glance 
The knights in tilt and Tournament 

Broke many a lance. 



50 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Fixed in their helmets bright 

Her dainty glove, 
Saying to all in sight 

" Tis her I love." 

Still are the voices rich and sweet 

In Languedoc, 
And youths and maidens, singing in the streer, 

At care do mock; 

The women's eyes are bright, 

Their faces fair. 
Still are the men polite 

And debonaire. 

But times have changed in many ways 

In dear old France 
In Languedoc — that country 
Of romance. 

On leaving Avignon 
for Le Pui 
July, 1914 



In the Cevennes! 

Ah! we ascend 
Out of the dust and the rain. 

And with delight. 

Mounting the height. 
Fling away care on the plain. 



51 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Welcome the breeze 

Blowing the trees. 
Welcome the fresh mountain air, 

Rivers that rush 

Fountains that gush 
As if our gladness to share. 

Up as we go 
Down must they flow, 
Down to the plain by the sea, 
As with delight 
Scale we the height 
On to the town of Le Pui. 

On train from 
Avignon to Le Pui 
July, IQ14 

%t mi 

We enter the Cathedral vast 

And lay our burdens down: 
We come to Thee, O Lord, to pray. 

And all our sorrows drown. 

Lord lift our hearts to Thine in praise 

Ere we depart, 
That so our souls Thou mayest raise 

Above man's art. 

The music in the Choir beyond 

Doth lift our hearts to Thee 
Ah may they mount on eagle's wings 

As those who trust in Thee. 



52 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

And may we walk and never faint. 

Or run and not be weary. 
That so our spirits filled with Thine 

Can never more feel dreary. 

Lord Thou hast said Thou dwellest not 

In Temples made with hands, 
Yet in Thy name if gathered there 

Thou in the midst will stand. 

So in the quiet hush that comes 

After the singing choir. 
Our souls shall mount on "Eagles* Wings" 
As those who cannot tire. 

Morning service 
July 23, 1914 

a future 

Poor patient soul, along life's rugged street 

Toiling thy way to heaven, 
Hast thou not heard thy Saviour's loving 
voice 

"Thy sins shall be forgiven"? 

Ah, He*ll receive thee, for in hardest work 

Thou still hast done thy best 
Soon, soon shalt thou give answer to His 
voice 

"Come unto me, and rest"! 



Thy kerchief and thy snowy cap, 
All laid aside. 
Are done with now — 



S3 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Thou wilt not need them — 
But the peace is sweet 
That crowns thy brow. 

Thy quiet hands — 

So busy all thy life 
Folded upon thy breast: 
Ah, thou hast earned full well 
Thy Saviour's call — 
"Come unto me — 
And rest"! 

Toiling up to The Cathedral of 
Le Pui to Afternoon Service 
July 23,1914 

Steep stony streets! what feet have o'er thee 
trod 

In century, upon century — 

When faith in God 
Was strong, though man was fierce, 

And battled with his might 
With sword and glaive of steel 

To help the right. 

What clang of armor and of horses hoofs 

That beat, 
In charging with their mailed knights 

The narrow street! 
What ladies fair watched them 

From windows high — 
Seeking to find their loved one 

With a sigh. 



54 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Ah, times have changed! — 

But still the houses quaint 

Climb up the narrow street: 

And many a saint — 
On pillared wall in the Cathedral high 

Looks down the nave, 

Flooded with sunset light: 

And still its great arch frames, 

In massive masonry, 
The hills and red- tiled roofs 

OfoldLePui. 

Sunsety Le Put 
July 23, 1^14 

The grand cathedral bell 

Boometh the hour — 
As in the ages past 

To tell — with power — 

The village folk 
When work must cease 
At last. — 

The aged women 

In their snowy caps 
Toil up the steps — 
It is the hour of "Benediction" — 

They come perhaps 
To bring before the Lord 

Their troubles rare — 
Laying them at His feet 

To leave them there. 



S^ 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

The Grand Cathedral Portal 

Frames the sky — 
All sunset flushed — 
Above the hills 
That lie 
In mystery, 
Crowning the red-tiled roofs 
Of old Le Pui — 

I follow up the steps — 
Ending the day so long 
With service — solemn sweet 
Of Even-Song. 

Twilight^ Le Pui 
July 23, 1914 

Wtft Ancient Jfaitft 

The pointed arches of the narrow aisle 
Fade on — from gold to brown — 

While at the end the radiant window's smile 
Sheds light — like jewelled crown. 

Ah faith, which wrought such miracles in 
stone 

Where is it now? 
Is the world better that it rushes on. 

The dust upon its brow? 

We have not time to enter in and kneel 

In reverence sweet — 
We have not time our Saviour's grace to feel, 

His face to greet. 

S6 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

See where He hangs upon the cruel cross 

Our sins to bear! 
Ah! the world's gain is counted naught but 
dross, 
If we His love can share. 

St, Laurent 

Early morningy Le Put 

July 24, 1914 

r€glis(e be ^t iWictiael 

St. Michael well hast thou thy Dragon slain! 
See where thy spear has pierced his breast! 

He writhes in pain, 

Nor will he ever rise 

To combat thee again. 

Here to this little chapel on the height 

Do many pilgrims come; 
Can we not learn a lesson from thy might 

And take it home? 

The patience too that wrought these pillars fair. 

With arches round. 
The frescoes that adorn the panels rare. 

In the silence profound. 

A welcome silence to all those who come — 

A safe retreat. 
Far, far above the busy noisy hum 
Of old Le Pui, 
Still lying at our feet. 

Morningy July 24^ igi4 
250 steps up 



Bl 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

*'Come ®nto iWe'' 

Poor soul! What are thy sins? 

That thou must seek 
In the Cathedral vast 

Forgiveness rare? 
That thou with weary limbs 

From shrine to shrine 
Dost creep. 
Carrying thy chair. 

Dost thou not know there is but One can give 

Remission for thy sins at thy request ? 
Rest, rest, thy weary limbs. 

Turn unto Him 
For He hath said — 
"Come unto me — 
All ye who weary are 
And heavy laden — 
And I will give you rest/' 

In the Cathedraly 

Le Put 

July 24, I9H 

^e are tfje tKemple of tJje 
Hibins (gob 

Thou who respectest not man's person 

But in every place knowest Thine own — 

Teach us to pray! 

That so we may 

Thy presence own. 
Ah! Thou hast said Thou dwellest not 
In temples made with hands 



S8 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Yet in Thy name if gathered there 
Thou in the midst will stand. 
Oh, cleanse our hearts 
That they may be 
A temple meet for Thee 
That so we still may have Thee in our midst 
Until — Eternity. 

In the Cathedral 
Le Put 



^ jFraBtnent— ^t. Haurent 

The pointed arches of the narrow aisle 
Fade still — from gold to brown, 

The jewelled window casts the sunbeams smile 
Like angels looking down. 

The pillars rise to capitals 

With carving interlaced, 
And light and shade which plays o*er all 

In lace work traced. 

Le Put 



^tatut of STeanne ©'Urc in 
Catfiebral 

Thou fair Jeanne d*Arc, 

Who with such purpose high 

In thy sweet face, 

In the Cathedral stands — 
So chaste — so full of grace! 



59 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Thou wearest for thy panoply 

Over thy burnished lance 
A mantle with the fleur-de-lis — 

The lilies of thy France 

Thou thinkest not with shame to don 

That armor flashing bright, 
With sword in hand still following on 

The visions of the night. 

Ah when a little maid at eve 
Thou watched thy father's flock 
Happy and unafraid 
Knitting thy sock — 
Dreamest thou that thou would*st stand 

Firm as a rock? 
Firm that thy God would'st still 

Fulfill thy dreams, 
Until at last thou crown 
Thy king at Rheims. 

Le Put 

July 24, IQI4 

Wit ©es^erteh Confaent 

Ah. France! with ruthless hand dost thou 
destroy 

Thy monuments of old! 
In this old Convent hum loud factory wheels 

Just for the lust of gold. 

The quiet nun who paced this garden sweet 
Where is she now? 

60 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Where will she go from this secure retreat 
After her solemn vow? 

The flowers that she tended run to seed 

And riot in the paths — 
The garden beds are filled with many a weed 

The poppies in the grass — 

Hollyhocks and roses, oleanders fair 

Make harmonies complete. 
The birds are singing in the branches there 

As if her song to greet. 

Hydrangeas, pink and white — droop heavier 
heads 

Than they have done before. 
Sorrowing that her light footsteps' tread 

They now shall hear no more. 

Across the Rhone, beyond the garden wall 

Fair in the morning light 
I see the towers of the Cathedral tall — 

While hardly out of sight, 

Just where the river bends around the wall. 

Rises — inspiring awe — 
The massive tower of the old French king 

Le Philipe de Valois. 

Ah France! with ruthless hand dost thou 
neglect 
Thy monuments of old — 

6i 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

The vacant cloisters crumbling into dust 
Just for the lust of gold. 
Vienne 
Mornings July 2^y 1^14 

upward and onward as we pass 

From regions far below. 
In narrow defiles where the power of Issiere 

Down doth flow — 
The clouds do part and pass 

As on they go — 
Ah! there it is at last! 
Right up against the blue, 

The snow! — the snow! 

On the train — 
Clearing Morning 
Mounting to Bourg St, Maurice 
July 28, 1914 

ILt ^etit g)t. JSemarb 

The little chalets with their chapels quaint 

Nestle in valleys fair. 
And maids and matrons with an air piquante 

Their pretty caps still wear. 

And, where the yellow grain is ripening 

Upon the hill. 
The maids, and men with scythes do make 

The harvest still. 



62 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Upon the roadside as we upward pass 

I see a shrine — 
Showing the peasants, simple faith still lasts 

In power divine. 

The yellow foxgloves toss their graceful heads. 

And eglantine — 
All pink and white, in clumps and masses 
spreads 

Beside the pine.'^ 

And orchids rare lift up their faces fair 

Among the hay, — 
The few the peasant*s scythe has time to 
spare, 

Busy alwayl 

And Alpine roses flush the hillsides high, 

And in the snow 
The print of chamxois' feet tells they are nigh, 

As up we go. 

For snow is all about us suddenly 

Beside our path — 
Though little rushing rivulets tell noisily 

It will not last. 

And up we go to mountains higher still, 

Nearing the sky. 
To the old Hospice of the St. Bernard 
Where clouds do fly. 

Motor ride to Hospice 
July 28, 191 4 

63 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

0n t|)e JSoriier 

Thou little lonely lake, set in the snowy hills, 

Where clouds do pass 
Letting the sun shine through to catch some 
snowy peak. 

Or glimmer on the grass; 

Ah, knowest thou, thou'rt in Italia fair 

Land of the vine and sun? 
The snow falls o'er thee now, thou may'st be 
frozen ere 

The day is done. 

Perchance thou wert set there to mark that 
border fair; 

The road descends — 
Just where thou liest deep, dreaming in sleep. 

It downward bends. 

And softer feels the air, the mountains look 
more fair 
As down we turn. 
As for fair Italy — the land of warmth and sun 
Our hearts do burn. 

Walk down into Italy, 
Le Petit St, Bernard 
Afternoony July 28, 1914 

Co ^fjroubeb JHont JSlant 

Is it that we, unworthy of thy grace. 

Must fail to see thy face 
Thou great Mont Blanc 

Under thy veil of cloud? 

64 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Ah! but for one short glance 
^ Before we leave thy France! 
Then we could leave thee lie 

As in thy shroud. 
Or is it that thou 

Hides t thy face so pale 
By filmy cloud-Hke veil 

For beauty's sake? 
Ah, throw it off again! 

Look down upon the plain, 
The sun descending now 
Will flush thy ruddy brow. 
Thy beauty make. 

Le Petit St, Bernard 
Afternoon walk 
July 28, 1914 

^Q iltont plant at Baton 

(Village of Pr6 St. Didier) 

Ah! Mountain white art thou 
Bathing thy face with dew? 
Still covered with a cloud 

Till early dawn — 
Then cleansed and freshened 
Looking toward the East 

To greet thy Lord — the Sun? 
See as he comes to kiss thy forehead whit^ 

Thou blushes t rosy red; 
Ah, give us one more moment of delight 
Before the cloud is spread 
Over thee like a mantle, 

Lest that we, 

6c 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

Lifting our eyes to heaven, 

Should see thy beauty fair 
And dazzled be 

Should see — nor be forgiven. 

Early dawn 
July 29, 1914 



''^t tftat JIatti epe« to ^ee, 

Lord with what lavish hand dost Thou 

In colors sweet 

Thy picture paint, 
Poppies and corn flowers against the golden 
grain. 

And over all 

Mont Blanc. 

Ah, dull is he of sight, with thoughtless heart, 
Who does not feel it 
And Thee thank — 
The beauteous coloring of fields and woods 
And over all. 

With cloud wreaths crowned. 
The Mountain King 
Mont Blanc! 

On the harvest hillsUe, 
PrSSt.Didier 
July 30, 1 91 4 

66 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

A narrow valley nestled in the hills, 
With poplars tall beside the little road 

And soft green grass; 
While firs and pines run down to meet it, 
And below, 
The river rushes past. 

The tiny village with its chapel quaint 
And old stone roofs that speak of Italy 

In houses few, 
With its dark poplars either side 
The town. 
Complete the view. 

Upon the other side the fields of grain 
Are ripening in harvest's richest tints. 

All golden brown. 
Poppies and corn flowers intermingling, 

And above 
Mont Blanc looks down. 

That mountain king looks down from snowy 

heights, 
And in grand voice — dressed in his ermine 
robes — 
Seemeth to say — 
"These are my fields, my woods, my rushing 
stream, 
I am the 
King alway." 

July 30,1914 

67 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 



\ 



{After service in little churchy where they handed^ 
round the "bread'* in baskets) 

Ah, judge not thou thy sister's ancient faith. 

Or pure intent: 
What seems to thee an empty form, to her 
may be 

A blessed sacrament. 
Far sadder seems the lack of faith that marks 

The present day, 
The men and women from their father's 
church 

Turning away. 

The want of reverence for things gone by. 

For ancient rites; 
Desire for knowledge of the things too high, 

Far out of sight: — 
Far past our ken — placed there beyond our 
reach 

In heaven's clear light. 
Because our God, proving our hearts — our 
faith 

In Him would teach. 



How oft we think, "Ah, could I once but hear 

Some loved one's voice. 
Would it not make me feel that heaven was 
near? 

Had I my choice 

68 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

The spirits gone would come to us again 

In daily life — 
Telling us all was well, cheering us on 

To conquer in the strife/* 

Ah, who can tell — perhaps unseen by us 

They're at our side. 
And ever in the hope they can us aid 

They there abide: 
The kindly thought that prompts some loving 
deed 

Is theirs not ours: 
The inspiration of the words that come 

With rhythm's power. 

And when we doubt, and close our spirit's ears 

They're far away; 
But when we trust, and love, and gentler are, 

They near us stay. 
Then let us rest content with God's design 

In perfect peace, — 
Feeling that He who knows, will in His time 
Our souls release. 

Pre St. Didier, 
Sunday afternoon 
Aug, 2y igi4 



(KpiIoBue to ^e«e« on STeanne b^^tc 

But ah! for some high soul with purpose vast! 
That wars might ever cease. 

69 



CATHEDRAL REVERIES 

That so the world forevermore 
Might crown — at last — 
The King of Kings, 
The King of Peace. 

On the mountain side. 
Pre St. Didier 
Afternoon of Aug. <?, /p/-^, 
before I knew England 
had declared war 



70 



©tuitferlanD SJnDcr 

Co Wittpinz Mont ?Blant 

(Composed on flight from Pre St, Bidier in 
storm on Italian frontier south of Mont Blanc, 
August J, iQi4y when it seemed probable that 
Italy would declare war with France.) 

No wonder that thou mournest 

Great Mont Blanc! 
Hiding thy face so pale 

By heavy clouds which trail 
Down to thy feet. 
Nor wilt thou downward glance, 

Weeping, and weeping sore 

For this disastrous war 
In which Italia 

May stab her brother France. 
Ah, children on thy knee, 

Were they not meant to be 
Brought up to live with thee 

In love and amity 
Joyous and gay? 
They why away, away 
To don their uniform 
And kill their brother man? 

And must I go? 

And must I leave thee so? 
And thy fair Italy 

In all this woe! 
See as I upward glance 

The refugees from France 



71 



SWITZERLAND 

Sorrowing as they advance 

Their mountain homes to leave; 
While up the steep defile 

The soldiers all the while 
Are mounting to their forts on the frontierj 

And I must follow on 
'Ere they be past and gone! 

Ah! am I trapped at last? 
They will not let me pass! 

Perhaps thy youngest child 

Of temper yet more mild — 
Fair Switzerland — 
*Brought up upon thy knee 

*Mid snowy mountains wild 
And valleys nestling green, 

Will give me passage free! 
That I may find at last 

The tiring journey past 

Through war-like scene 
A peaceful home at last 

In Northern England. 
But oh! in this disastrous wicked war 

To leave thee weeping! 

Weeping, weeping sore! 

^ iHont i@Iane 

Still thou weepest, weepest, weepest 
As for shame thy face thou keepest 
Covered o'er; 



*The foothills of Mont Blanc sweep into France, 
Italy and Switzerland. 



72 



SWITZERLAND 

Weeping for the wives and mothers, 
Weeping for the maids and lovers, 
And the men who, as of yore 
Must face death and bloody battle 
In this cruel wicked war. 

Ah! if thou art nearer heaven 
Than all other snowy mountains 

In this land, 
Wilt thou pray for justice given? 
Wilt thou pray for arbitration? 
Wilt thou pray that every nation 
Sees the wrong it does its People? 
In this cruel, wicked war. 

Morning on the boat 

to Geneva 

Aug, 5, 191 4 



©tofliQllt on Hafee Heman 

{Coming hack to Montreux) 
An evening calm after a day of storm 

Flushes the mountains high. 
While at their feet in slumber deep 

Lake Leman fair doth lie. 

The rosy clouds stretch out their pleading 
arms 

Across the tranquil sky, 
And far below in colors soft and warm 

Dreaming — ^reflected lie. 



73 



SWITZERLAND 

The Dent du Midi holds the sunset light 

Upon its highest crest, 
While down the quiet lake the Evening Star 

Shines softly in the West. 

The Moon silvering the ruddy clouds 
Shows o'er the mountains steep, 

With promise fair throughout the silent night 
Her faithful watch to keep. 

And as the tranquil eve 

Endeth the stormy day, 
"Oh, Lamb of God, who takest 

The sins of the world away, 
Have mercy on us!'* 

And while Thy Star of Hope 

Shineth within our breast, 
As now the Evening Star 

Shines brightly in the West, 
Give us the trust that soon 

This wicked war may cease. 
"Oh, Lamb of God, who takest 

The sins of the world away, 
Grant us Thy peace!" 

Aug, 6y igi4 

(glion— Hafee <Seneba 

up above the peaceful Lake 

Half way to the crest 
Of this wooded hillside 

Sloping to the West, 



74 



SWITZERLAND 

I have found a refuge safe 

From this cruel war, 
From this scourge that hurts the world 

To its very core. 

Hurts the world! But, ah, still more 

Hurts the Christian faith! 
For when Christian nations take 

The dagger from its sheath, 
Is it not that they must pierce 

The side of Christ again ? 
The Christ who died upon the Cross 

To save His fellow-men ! 
Saying as He died for All 

In agony of woe — 
"Father, forgive them! 
For they know not what they do!" 

Aug, lOy igi4 

g)toit?erlan& after JMobiM?atian 

The harvest fields are ripening unto harvest 

In peaceful Switzerland, 
The golden grain is dropping in the furrows 

O'er the deserted plain. 
Where are the men, the stalwart and the ready 

To gather in the grain? 
Where are the horses that with footstep steady 

Drag home the laden wain? 

Ah, gone! all gone, leaving their homes de- 
serted 
To weeping wives* and children's care — 



75 



SWITZERLAND 

Poor burdened women toiling in their sorrow 
Without a helping hand their work to share^ 
Ah, God! That man could see the great in-! 
justice 
Of this disastrous war. 
Turning their swords to plowshares and their 
spears 
To pruning hooks once more. 

See on the hillsides how the ripening vine- 
yards 
Are turning ruddy with their vintage rare, 
Dropping to earth their purple fruit ungar- 
nered 
For lack of tending and of skillful care. 
Open men's eyes to see this cruel waste. 

Unstop their ears to pity's cries, 
Give them a sense our Saviour's woe to taste 
When they again in war must pierce His 
side. 

Aug, 10 y igi4 



€atlp iMornrng Jlalfe to Caux 
from iilton a&obe Ha&e (^eneba 

Ye mountain tops who lift your eyes to heaven 
In the first early dawn 
Of morning light. 
Will you not pray that man may be forgiven 
And see this fearful wrong 
In God's clear Light? 

76 



SWITZERLAND 

Ah, peaceful is the scene that all surrounds 
you, 
The Lake still lies in slumber 
At your feet: 
Heaven's vault is arching over you in pure 
blue. 
And flowers open their dewy eyes 
The sun to greet. 

But could ye see the awful desolation 
In many homes throughout 
God's world so fair, 
How brother fights with brother, and each 
nation 
Grapples each other's throats 
Lest unawares 

It takes a little land — that God has given 
His people all to live upon 
In peace. 
Your tears would fall, your prayers would 
rise to heaven 
That God would help us all — 
And give release 
In everlasting peace. 

'^^tib'si in Wsi ?&eaben, MlVsi aaiglit 
toftfi tU moxW 

Never alone! The birds and bees are with us. 
The butterflies are poising on the flower — 

Never alone! The shadows e'en around us 
Tell to the listening day the passing hour. 



77 



SWITZERLAND 

Never alone! The wind is in the branches, 
The sun is peeping through their leafage 
green 

Never alone! nor need we e'en be anxious, 
The air is full of presences unseen. 

Never alone! The dear ones that have left us 
Are watching o*er us when we seem alone, 
Never alone! The thoughts that come un- 
bidden 
Are often their 's, not our*s, whom we 
thought gone. 

Never alone! God's presence fills the silence 
With His most holy calm within our breast; 
Never alone! On mountain top or valley, 
Through height, or depth He gives His 
promised rest. 

^tig. 15, I9H 



78 



jactount of HToutnep from Stalp to 
Cnglanb, in ^nzn^U 1014 

My experiences in August of 1914 
after discovering suddenly that a world 
war had broken out, and that I must fly 
at once into neutral territory and await 
the possibility of reaching London, 
where I had my sailings in September, 
are of such great interest to me that I 
wish to record in print a brief statement 
of them, hoping they may add interest 
to this little book. 

On that eventful Sunday of August, 
not knowing of the possibility of war in 
that far away village of Pre St Didier, 
just over the Italian border from France, 
by the Petit St. Bernard, I wrote the 
"Epilogue to Jeanne d*Arc". 

The next morning I rose early and 
walked down the valley of Aosta; on 
my way I met soldiers, talking to them 
in French about the foolishness and 
iniquity of war. Some time later I saw 
great numbers of soldiers, mounting, 

7? 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

mounting, to the frontier, where I knew] 
there was a fort. On my return to the, 
village before noon I found the littlej 
piazza swarming with poor Italian refu- 
gees, with their packs and household] 
stuff on their backs, in great distress>j 
being driven from their homes in France] 
over the border. 

I was the only English speaking per-l 
son in the village, but managed inj 
French to consult with some Italianj 
gentlemen who told me I should leave 
at once, and recommended the island of] 
Malta as the nearest English territory. 
Smiling, I replied that I would return to] 
England as I had planned, by way ol 
France. "Mais, ce n*est pas possible,] 
c'est ferme!" they exclaimed. So turn- 
ing from them in haste, I engaged a seat] 
for next morning on the last trip of public 
motor down to Aosta, hoping there toj 
get a private motor to take me over thei 
Grand St. Bernard into Switzerland. 

I arose at 4 o'clock next morning and' 



80 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

in a'drenching rain — the first during my 
stay — motored down that beautiful 
valley with its picturesque villages, 
meeting all the while squads of soldiers 
passing up. At that time it seemed 
that Italy, according to treaty, would be 
bound to declare war against France for 
no cause whatever. 

Arrived at Aosta, I found my friend. 
Miss C, to whom I had telegraphed, 
still awaiting me though deciding to re- 
turn to her relations in Rome. Finding 
that a private car was quite beyond my 
means, the banks refusing to honor my 
"letter of credit", I engaged the last 
seat on, I think, the last trip of the 
public motor to the old Hospice of the 
Grand St. Bernard. 

The "diligence" there had ceased 
running, all men having been mobilized, 
but I found two English ladies — one 
New Zealander — who with me procured 
a conveyance, down as we hoped, into 
the little village of Orsieres, by misty 

81 



ITALY TO ENGLANDy 1914 

moonlight. Half way down we were 
turned out in perfect darkness; but I 
bethought me of my luggage in a sepa- 
rate van, and with some trouble re- 
gained it — my hot-water-bag being an 
object of suspicion to the Custom House 
officials who held it up, exclaiming 
gruffly, "Was ist das?" On the way 
down a burly Swiss who had boarded 
the front seat of our carriage, fell off 
half-drunk — I hope at his home — and 
from there on, everywhere from their 
chalets, the men, young and old, were 
turning out with such equipment as they 
could muster. On arriving late at night 
in the little village of Orsieres, the 
"Place" was soon crowded with men 
and horses equipped for the frontier; 
and as I watched from my window of 
the little hotel looking down into the 
square, the n'ames of all were called out 
and responded to as they filed out, one 
man leading two laden horses or riding 
in the middle — the farm horses that 

82 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

were to have reaped the grain of Switzer- 
land; while the women, standing on 
seats and benches crowded against the 
walls, wept and wrung their hands, ex- 
claiming, "Jamais! jamais! jamais!" and 
the horses, as if prescient of the horrors 
of war, sent forth unearthly screams. 

In the morning when I rose you could 
have heard a pin drop — all the men of 
the village had vanished. 

At Martiguy for the first time I was 
under military orders, the soldiers 
patroling the station and railway tracks, 
but I came in contact with English 
speaking persons — a rare treat in my 
travels — all hurrying to Geneva for 
passports; and arrived at the little vil- 
lage of Glion above Montreux without 
further incident. There I procured 
quarters in a small "Pension" where 
were gathered representatives of thir- 
teen different nationalities, myself the 
only American, with nothing against 
each other, all indignant at the thought 

83 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

of war, and awaiting, many without 
money, the possibility of getting to their 

own homes. I recall Madame , 

the Austrian hostess, weeping and saying 
she was wishing for " un tremblement de 
la terre" to keep these two great armies 
from meeting each other — a "Jove's 
thunderbolt" instead of machine guns. 

Next morning I descended by the 
funicular, and took the early boat to 
Geneva to obtain my passport, where I 
found crowds of anxious men and 
women, the women expecially looking 
almost distracted under the situation of 
no money and the necessity of reaching 
America on specified dates. 

I was given my number at the Con- 
sul's office and feared I should have to 
wait there all day, but by eating my 
lunch in the office I slipped in while 
others went away for their's — the Con- 
sul being so rushed that he never left 
the place for meals. 

I was forced to remain at Glion for 

84 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

three weeks, making good friends of 
some delightful young English girls with 
whom I cast in my lot; taking with them 
short excursions and walks, yet not dar- 
ing to go far on account of lack of money 
and the necessity of awaiting daily the 
hour when the whole English party in 
Switzerland would leave "en masse" by 
chartered train for England. I, an 
American, being officially admitted to 
their ranks. 

Some of my experiences meanwhile 
might seem humorous. My umbrella 
was almost worn out and the weather 
very rainy. It was impossible for a long 
time to procure any money at Montreux, 
so that I even hesitated to buy postage 
stamps — meantime putting notices in 
the official's windows, advertising my 
whereabouts, hoping to attract the at- 
tention of some relations who I thought 
might pass that way. No letters had 
been delivered for weeks. At last some 
money was procured at Montreux, and 

85 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

it was necessary to get my passport 
vised by the French and British Consuls, 
so continuing in a storm down the lake 
after visiting the Castle of Chillon, I 
went to Laussanne. On awaiting my 
turn amongst a great crowd at the 
French Consul's office, after looking at 
my passport, he suddenly exclaimed, 
"It is no good, it expired three weeks 
ago! Go back to Geneva and procure 
another one." The poor overworked 
Consul at Geneva had made it out for 
one day instead of a year and a day. 
On the stairway a young official followed 
me, saying, "Go to Monsieur M.", giv- 
ing me his address. "He can help you." 
Hastening from the Consul's office in a 
frightful storm, my paper with the ad- 
dress blew away, but seeing a cab on the 
opposite side of the street, I rushed 
across, exclaiming, "Vite! Vite! Mon- 
sieur M.!" and we drove like mad down 
hill. Arriving there the servant said, 
" Monsieur M. is from home." Turning 

86 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 191 4 

away in dispair, Monsieur M., returning, 
met me at the door, took in the situation 
at once, saying, I know the Sub-Consul 
of Vevey will be returning on this after- 
noon's boat from Geneva, he will help 
you; drive fast and you may still catch 
it." Arriving at Ouchy, the boat nearing 
the wharf, I paid my fare, sprang from 
the cab, and my umbrella completely 
collapsed, all the spokes going through 
the top. 

Boarding the boat in a hurricane of 
wind and rain, my umbrella erected like 
a peaked tent, I left word with the ticket 
agent that I would be glad to drink a 
cup of tea with the Consul. Very 
shortly he appeared, and though almost 
stone deaf, took in the situation at once, 
saying, "You need not go back to 
Geneva, I can fix you up. Get off at 
the second landing at Vevey and follow 
me to my ofHce. I have no umbrella, 
so must run!" "I have a broken um- 
brella, so must run," I answered. 

87 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

Arrived at the landing, the Consul, 
with collar turned up, rushed wildly up 
the street, while I panted after him 
under my tent-umbrella, while the people 
on board sent up a shout of laughter. 
Like the Irish girl going in a carriage to 
the funeral, "I wished Fd been on the 
sidewalk to see meself go by." In a 
moment I was almost knocked down by 
the Consul running in the opposite di- 
rection. "My office is closed, follow 
me!" he shouted as he rushed past. I 
found him in his rooms at the hotel 
where with a little acid he removed the 
number 4, making the date read 191 5, 
then dismissed me into the storm again, 
as he was talking to some excited people 
telling a tale of a chauffeur being shot 
for not holding up his car when crossing 
the border. 

Holding my umbrella carefully with 
the spokes bristling out above, I took 
refuge in the cafe, where some of my 
compatriots, seeing a sister in distress, 

88 



ITALY TO ENGLAND^ 1914 

burst Into laughter which I heartily en- 
joyed with them. But these same 
people came bravely to my rescue, mak. 
ing the concierge give me his umbrella, 
while, leaving mine as hostage, I started 
off to spend the first money I had re- 
ceived for a month in buying a new one. 
This the woman in the little shop (at 
last discovered) refused to give me with- 
out taking my whole big note, saying 
that she had no change; the P. O. also 
turned me down indignantly, but I at 
last procured the umbrella by taking 
Italian money in change, and promptly 
spent some of it on a copy of Byron's 
"Prisoner of Chillon." At last by the 
" tram-car '* I returned to the funicular 
at Territet and was soon mounting up 
into the heights, to my pension at Glion, 
tired, but well pleased with my long 
day's adventure. I had to return how- 
ever next day to Laussanne for the 
French Consul's "vise" and while there, 
unknown to me, my relation for whom 

89 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

I was searching, stopping one night at 
Laussanne in returning from the Tyrol, 
was below enjoying a swim in the lake. 
The day shortly arrived when we 
were informed the English party would 
depart in two days — each being assigned 
a number for the train, told to provide 
themselves with food for three days, 
take only such luggage as we could 
handle, and leave the rest in their care 
to be dispatched after the war had 
ended. I spent the morning attending 
to this; then all individually were sum- 
moned to come down again to the 
"Kursaal" at Montreux for examina- 
tion of credentials. Though tired with 
the morning's work, down I went at 
once in the funicular, and stood in line 
for two hours awaiting the "last offices" 
of the "big twelve'', the dozen of the 
Committee who sat around a long table, 
some of whom had admitted me. Im- 
agine the shock, when, my turn arriving, 
I was gruffly told I could not go with the 



90 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

English party. With such breath as 
remained I feebly protested, "I have 
my number assigned! You have my 
luggage." Briefly I was told to go find 
my luggage again and take the first 
train I could find from Geneva, alone, 
next morning. 

I have no desire to linger over this; 
I have no grudge against the English for 
it. To me nationality is nothing, the 
individual everything. The blaming of 
a nation for the action of individuals is 
what makes for war. Who was that 
wise man who said, "No generalization 
is always true, not even this one".^ In 
relating my experience to an English- 
man whom I met in travel in 1921 
who had been in the war, he said in- 
dignantly, "It is nothing but this in- 
fernal patriotism." 

One Scotchman far back in the line 
seeing my dismay offered to help me 
find my luggage if I would wait for him. 
It was then 6 p. m. and I had no time to 



91 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

lose, so thanking him cordially I told 
him I thought I would hereafter depend 
on a kind Providence, and must leave at 
once. Taking the tram-car some miles 
down to Clarens, I was fortunate in 
finding my box still unstored, waiting 
in the place where I had left it in the 
morning among English luggage. Eng- 
lish ladies there were most kind in sug- 
gestions, but there was not a man or boy 
to be found to lift it. At last I was told 
there was an express wagon going up the 
lake presently, and if I could ride on it 
I could leave it at the boat landing at 
Montreux for the six o'clock boat next 
morning. So after much delay I was 
ofF with it at last among piled up bag- 
gage — my feet dangling from the front 
seat of the wagon, as the horse trotted 
rapidly up the lake — and again I could 
see the humorous side as the people on 
the sidewalks burst into laughter. Ar- 
rived at Montreux, the box was de- 
posited on the wharf, and we flew on to 

92 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

Territet, where I was in time to take the 
last trip up to Glion. But alas! as I 
began to mount, the porter called, "It 
is a mistake. The boat does not stop at 
Montreux, but at Territet." Thrusting 
my check into his hand, I told him to 
get my box from Montreux and meet 
me at Territet at 6 a. m. 

I took time that evening to say good- 
bye to many kind friends of different 
nationalities; and my kind young Eng- 
lish friends rose with me at 4 a. m and 
carried my bags down to the little 
funicular station. Arrived at Territet, 
the porter met me, saying, "It is a mis- 
take! The boat does not stop at 
Territet, but at Montreux." Unfasten- 
ing the three bags which hung from a 
leather strap around my waist, I gave 
him everything he could take to wheel 
down, while I followed. But in vain I 
struggled to keep up with him, so shout- 
ing "Vite! Vite! I will take the tram 
car," I awaited that uncertainty. It 

93 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

came at last, but the boat crossing the 
lake was always ahead of me; bul 
somehow I found myself on board just] 
as it started — then I took breath in 
two-hours' ride to Geneva. 

I found the Swiss always most 
courteous and helpful — such as were 
left from mobilization; and here the 
captain told me to wait for the second 
stop, which would land me just opposite 
Cook's office. I managed to get some- 
one to handle my box and hold-all, and 
Cook's office, though closed, opened to a 
damsel in distress, and I breathed freely 
when they said, "Yes, a train starts at 
3 P.M." (It was then 1 1 o'clock.) "Our 
agent will be on board and will attend 
to you in every way." 

I drove the agent to the railway 
station, where he dismounted, saying, 
"You wait here;" and there I sat on 
my hold-all, waiting like " Casablanca," 
for I never saw him again — for all the 
good he did me he might have been 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

blown to atoms, while I "asked of the 
winds." At last a porter with "Hotel 
de la Paix" — bless the name! — in large 
letters on his cap, asked me why I was 
waiting, and smiled broadly when I 
innocently told him the necessity. He 
had my box registered for me to Paris, 
and I managed to pull my hold-all into 
the center of the great room, where I 
sat on it for hours. By this time the 
room was filling to suffocation, and the 
soldiers with bayonets were pointing 
them in every direction. But I began 
to meet my compatriots, and people 
whom I had met on shipboard in May, 
who gave me news of my relations in the 
Tyrol, who had gone on, they thought. 
They tried to induce me from making 
the attempt alone, but I was bound for 
my beloved England, and had "put my 
hand to the plough." Some of them 
wisely told me I had better relinquish 
my "hold-all" and secure a seat, so 
when the doors were opened by the 

9S 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

soldiers, I did so, and we were pushed 
''en masse**, between the bayonets, down 
stairs and up again onto the train plat- 
form, showing our passports and tickets 
as we went. Securing a seat, I de- 
posited all my effects on it and quickly 
returned to search for my deserted hold- 
all. Coming to the steps, I found I had 
lost my ticket, but drawing on my im. 
agination, I exclaimed, "It is necessary 
for me to return for my baggage, I have 
left my ticket on my seat in the train. 
May I pass?" It is strange in emer- 
gencies how voluble one can be in 
French. "Yes, madame, but not this 
way!" So I was forced to go out on to the 
street, where, taking a "detour," |I picked 
up a man to help me, and on entering 
the waiting room there was my hold-all 
as I had left it, in the center of the great 
room. Again I hopefully said to the 
soldier in charge, "I have left my ticket 
on my seat in the train," and when I at 
last found my railway carriage, I found 
I had told the truth! 



96 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

I cannot relate half the incidents of 
that journey; how as our train waited, 
another came thundering in filled with 
American Swiss, who had run the 
gauntlet of the sea in the dark — putting 
into Bordeaux. All waved Swiss and 
American flags, and were greeted with 
cheers by us, which they echoed to the 
full; how we stopped at Belgrade on the 
border, where all passports, tickets, 
baggage, etc., had to be examined by 
the officials in about as much confusion 
as before. Again I lost my hold-all. 
Seeing Cook's agent, I accosted him. 
"Oh, you'll probably find it in some car- 
riage, go and look." There were about 
500 and the train was being divided, but 
just as I was despairing I saw a porter 
wheeling it by, and got him to shove it 
into my compartment, our train starting 
at once — the other, with my ship ac- 
quaintances, going by way of Lyons. 
Where we went I shall never know; we 
were in complete darkness and no one 

97 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

came near us, but we were told we wen 
going straight through to Paris without 
change. 

I think we were turned out four times, 
and in the dark. I always having taken 
off my hat and loosened my leather 
strap, for, like John Gilpin, I "carried 
weight.'* The last time, having really 
gone off to sleep, I became aware of 
someone pulling at me. "Madame, 
don't you know that everyone has left 
this train." Pulling myself together I 
tumbled out in the dark, and then 
managed to find a boy to get my hold-all 
across the railway tracks. There we 
stood and waited in the dark, till sud- 
denly something like a cattle-train came 
rushing in, and there was a mad stam- 
pede, but I secured a seat and got my 
hold-all later. 

All over the floor men were lying, and 
many women were standing. Opposite 
me stretched out on a seat, his head on a 
dress-suit case, "Mi-Lord" lay snoring, 

98 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

till I could stand it no longer, but 
touched his arm, saying, " Do you know 
that many tired women are standing all 
night?" "Oh, is that so?'* And up 
he got, while I went off to find two of 
the most frail looking — my bags of food 
coming into good use for these. After 
this I never closed my eyes, but could 
have laughed had I dared, to see the 
open mouths around me and the snores 
proceeding. The chauffeur, or courier, 
of the swell party in front inviting the 
French maid to sleep on his shoulder, 
and so forth. And there I sat wide 
awake, watching the dawn steal over 
France. "Somewhere in France'* we 
came to a halt, and many of us got out 
to stretch our stiffened limbs, the seats 
being hard benches, and to beg of the 
engineer a little water shot out from his 
engine to bathe our hands and faces. 

It was only about twenty-four hours 
since I had, at 4 a. m., risen at Glion for 
my journey, but it seemed a week. 



99 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

From Geneva to Paris we took thirty-six 
hours. As we neared Paris before 
Fontainebleau, the inhabitants at all the 
little railway stations, probably seeking 
the latest news, could no longer be kept 
out, and the gentry in front, of whom I 
was not one, had to be uncomfortably 
crowded at last. That Sunday after- 
noon Paris had her ear to the ground, 
listening for the German guns — the 
hotels were closing rapidly and people 
hurrying away, yet not without per- 
mission obtained with much trouble. 
After finding a hotel still open I sat late 
into the evening in the Garden of the 
Tuilleries reading the newspapers. It 
was Sunday. The next day I found my 
trunk from the Pyrenees, under Cook's 
storage; hunted up my box at the 
"Gare du Sud"; got both registered for 
London; spent endless time hunting up 
the place where I was to obtain per- 
mission to leave France; found, through 
Cook*s office, that all my letters for a 

100 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

month had been sent to Switzerland and 
not delivered; that my relations had 
been inquiring for me the day before, 
and were told I was in Switzerland; 
visited all the Consul's offices hoping to 
find them; advertised my whereabouts 
in the New York Herald, and spent the 
rest of the day hunting all over Paris, 
from one address to another, for my 
dear nurse who had saved my life at 
Tivoli, with whom I had expected to be 
in Paris before the war changed my 
plans — finding her at last. 

The next morning I left my hotel 
about 4 A. M. in order to obtain a seat 
in the train for Boulogne. The streets 
of Paris were being washed as usual, 
and had I had any breakfast I could 
have taken it oiF any of them. I was 
put on the wrong train by a porter, but 
through kind Providence I found my 
mistake before it was too late and was 
allowed a seat "not reserved", on the 
right one. This was shortly before the 

lOI 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

great battle of the Marne, and on our 
way, near Amiens, we saw many Red 
Cross tents and the first poor bleeding 
soldiers, while train after train rushed 
by with the English Tommies waving. 
At Boulogne all was confusion — people 
crowding each other out of place in 
efforts to obtain passage, and I shall 
never forget the behaviour of some 
young men, and their language when 
appealed to, who tried to break the 
line — the little babies having to be 
passed back for safety, and many women 
almost having their arms broken carry- 
ing their dress-suit cases in the crush. 

On board, a pretty young French- 
Irish girl asked me for my protection to 
escape the rudeness with which she had 
been treated. It is times like these that 
show the character of those " tried in the 
fire." 

From Folkestone to London I had as 
companions on the train this pretty 
young French-Irish girl, trying to catch 

102 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

the Dublin express that night, a Can- 
adian priest, and a Russian violinist 
hurrying back to Russia via England, 
to whom we all talked in French. How 
often I have wondered what became of 
them all, and if his music was forever 
silenced by the great silencer, war. I 
left them near midnight at Charing 
Cross Station. 

Next morning through kind Provi- 
dence I ran across my relations whom I 
had missed in Switzerland and Paris, 
who were sailing home next day, and 
felt repaid later for all I had gone 
through, in visiting once again all my 
dear friends in England and Scotland, 
some of whom have "passed on" since 
the great war. 

When one has a sense of humor, a love 
of adventure, and an interest in his 
fellow-men, such experiences as mine 
will in the retrospect, or at the moment, 
be of intense interest to one, and I trust I 
can convey a little of this to my readers. 

103 



ITALY TO ENGLAND, 1914 

"All things come round 
To him who will but wait." 
Seven years after, visiting England 
and France again, though seeing and 
hearing much to sadden me, I felt the 
healing touch of nature as soothing as 
ever, as I have tried to portray in the 
following descriptive verses of 1921, 
'Tis true that as Wordsworth says — 
"Nature never did betray 
The heart that loves her." 

M. C. 



164 



OEnglanti 

**jfat from tfie iHabbins €xnW* 

There nestled neath its hills its lies 

Dear "Little Stretton"! 
The cottage smoke curls toward the skies. 
And dewy mists from pastures rise, 
It is a spot to rest the eyes 

Sweet Little Stretton. 

The sheep are bleating on the hills 

0*er dear Little Stretton, 
The brook is filled by many rills, 
The little maid her pitcher fills, 
The farmer lad the garden tills 

Round sweet Little Stretton. 

The cottage thatch is amber brown 

At dear Little Stretton, 
And from above the hills look down, 
With gorse and heather for their crown; 
Ah, it is far from noise of town 

Is sweet Little Stretton. 

The casement windows open wide 

In dear Little Stretton 
On gardens bright, with flowers pied, 
As they with rainbow colors vied. 
Rose, lily, larkspur, London-pride, 

In sweet Little Stretton. 

There, live four sisters kind of heart 
In dear Little Stretton, 



loj 



ENGLAND 

And to the traveler they impart 
The charm of hospitality *s art, 
And help them on their journey's start 
From dear Little Stretton. 

God bless their age with peace and love, 

In dear Little Stretton, 
May He all sorrow far remove, 
And to their faithful hearts thus prove 
That He is watching from above 
0*er dear Little Stretton. 

Shropshire 
Sept.^ igi4 



Ah, those happy fields of Shropshire 
In amongst their little lanes, 

By high hedges over shadowed. 
How they come in dreams again! 

Little old half-timber houses 
With their roofs of mossy tile, 

Or of thatch where grows the stone crop. 
Near the foot path by the stile; 

Giant oaks that stretch their branches 
'Cross the lanes beside the way. 

Little children loitering homeward, 
Going back from school to play; 

i66 



ENGLAND 

Gardens fair where stand the mothers, 
Sweet of voice and soft of eye, 

Smiling with a loving welcome 
As the children they espy; 

Flowers bright of many colors, 

Every garden overflows, 
Poppies, red and white and yellow. 

Larkspurs, lupins, lily, rose; 

Birds that sing amid the branches. 
Bees that hum above the flowers. 

Lambs that fi"isk and sheep that wander, 
Scent of grass, fresh from the mower; 

Dimpled hills and happy valleys. 

Elm and oak in avenue. 
In the park where deer are feeding 

With the manor house in view; 

And one home so dear to memory 
With its white doves circling round. 

Coming at her call so gentle, 
Swooping, fluttering to the ground — 

She the grandmother and mother 
Brave by nature, soft of heart, 

Thinking always of another, 
Hiding self by every art; 

And the noble elder daughter. 
High of soul, of pure intent, 



107 



ENGLAND 

Follower of Christ the humble, 
Ever on some kindness bent; 

And the little children gathered 
Neath that sheltering roof so safe, 

Happy in the love that ever 
Greets them there from every face; 

And the dear aunts that are near by 
In their home at "Whitton Court", 

Dear old home of bygone history. 
Where the young and old resort. 

Ah, God shield all by His presence. 
Watching o'er them from above. 

And His banner ever floating over all 
Be always — "Love". 

''Whitton Paddocks" 



io8 



%tun l^eaw after 

(SnglanH 

tS^toiltsfit in a Bebon^^liire Hane 

Deep eut, twixt mossy banks, the little lane 
Wanders at will o*er hill and dale, 
Sheltering, neath clinging ivy, tufts 
Of hyacinth blue and primrose pale; 
While stretching far, framed in by these. 
Or seen through gap of gate or break in hedge, 
With glint of golden gorse guilding the grey, 
The far off freedom of the Dartmoor Downs. 

So would my life run on, wandering at will, 
Deed in the solitude of memories. 
Not mindless of the good that round me lies. 
Yet seeing from afar through sunset skies 
The hills delectable, toward which my goal is 
set. 

Devonshire 
May 8, ip2i 

a J?rabe %itt 

She lived alone in a quaint old stone hut 
Down by the cliffs below Tintagel's height. 
Year after year hearing the ocean moan 
Winter and summer — day and night 
Till she had aged grown; 
And yet she murmured not. 

She gathered drift wood from the cove 

After the storm. 

The wreck of ships her fuel — oftentimes 



109 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

The only thing she had to keep her warm 
And boil the kettle, for she gave to those 
Who came to see King Arthur's tower above 
A cup of tea, 

And thus she made a pittance, and her friends- 
Year after year hearing the ocean moan 
And yet she murmured not. 

Tintagel Cove, Cornwall 
May 12 y J 92 1 

^ea 3ireams(— tKintagel 

Resting at ease. 

My spirit flees 
Over the hills and plains; 

Or to the seas 
As fancies please. 

Born on the breeze. 
Flies — and comes back again. 

No more I yearn 

For the return 
Of those I love so well; 

Free from all care 
Far in the air 

With spirits rare 
They in sweet freedom dwell. 

Far at my feet 

The waves retreat, 
Sucked by deep currents down; 

'Ere the next curls 
Necklace of pearls 

Circles and circles round. 



no 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Then from the deep, 

Hushed as in sleep 
Comes in the mighty swell, 

Charging the rocks 
With booming shocks — 

Baffled — as down it fell. 

Far in the caves. 

The indrawn waves 
Circle in eddies round, 

Lapping the sheen 
Of sea weed green. 

Moving without a sound. 

On the clifF*s brink. 

Sea mosses pink 
Blow in the salt sea breeze; 

Primroses pale. 
Hardy yet frail, 

Bloom as I lie at ease. 

Bleating of sheep 

Close o'er the deep 
Cropping the grassy sward 

Fearlessly rove, 
While up above 

King Arthur's tower stands guard. 

Cries of the gulls 

My fancy lulls 
Resting so drowsily — 

The waves at play — 

III 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Sound of the spray — 

Far-far-away — 
Dreamland has conquered me. 

Tintagely Cornwall 
May I4y ig2r 

Wsit Ho^t Cijifii 

Only the gulls scream round, — 

Ghosts of the Knights of yore, — 

While waves upon the shore 

Bury the sound. 

Onward they rush in vain. 

Charging the rocks — 

Backward are flung again: — 

With laugh that mocks 

Gulls circle round and round — 

"See, we are free! 

Far on the air we ride 

Then on the sea." 

Into the hollow caves 

The waves retreat. 

Seeking a refuge there. 

Longing for sleep; — 

Into the caverns deep 

Seeking a home — 

Backward are flung again 

Destined to roam. 

Only one little pool. 

Left there alone. 

Sleeps through the summer day, 

Dreaming 'tis home; 

112 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

But when the eve draws on 

Back sweeps the tide, 

Onward and onward borne 

By nature's forces drawn. 

Circling so wide. 

Seeks out the cavern deep 

Where the pool lay. 

Dreaming in placid sleep 

Through the long day: 

Sea-maidens with white arms 

Circle him round. 

Bear him upon their breasts 

Out o'er the foam — 

Crying "We missed thee, child. 

The sea's thy home! 

Come to our arms again 

No more to roam." 

Tintagel 
May 75, ig2i 



The grassy downs sweep onward to the West 
And plunge in cliffs and boulders to the sea, 
While far below the waves sing to the shore. 
And round the Point you hear the breakers 
roar — 

Battling in vain — 

Only to fall again — 

Then surging back — 

BalHed once more. 



"3 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

The little lane runs down through bosky 
groves 

Seeking the sea, 
Where blackbirds whistle, and the thrushes 

sing, 
And cuckoos call these days of spring. 
And through the sunshine up the coves 

The mist floats in. 
Shrouding the downs in veils of mystery. 

And there the old, old farmhouse nestles safe. 
Taking the mists and sunbeams as they pass — 
For century after century — a home 
Where sheep have cropped the grass. 
And little children have grown old. 
And men have come and gone. 
But still the old stone farmhouse stands 
A sentinel o*er all the land, 
Amid the downs — a home. 

And now — 

A home where ne'er a sour look comes. 
Nor a harsh voice is heard; 
A home where all work pleasantly, 
In daily tasks so readily, 
With cheerful hospitality. 
In rain or sunshine steadily, 
Making, with His help joyously, 
God's choicest gift — 
A home! 

** Cleave Farm" Cornwall 
Majy ig2i 



114 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

rhou seemest to sink into the sea, 

Thy day's work fairly done. 
While shadows steal across the lea 

As homeward I return; 
And yet we know thou dost not die. 

But lightest up again 
The homes we love across the sea. 

In far off lands; 
And thus may we 

Take courage from thy constancy. 
And solace for our pain; 

For so what we call death is but 
The spirit's passing on 

To realms of immortality, 
Far distant lands beyond the sea — 

The shadows left behind. 

" Cleave Farm^' Cornwall 
May 2jy ig2i 

Wedged in between the hills and cliffs it lies. 
Seeking a shelter from the winds that sweep 
Across the wolds and far across the deep, 
Driving the little brown winged boats 
Out o*er the foam. 

Fishermen with their nets stand at the helm, 
Watching the rocky coast and angry sky. 
While at the little homes above, near by. 
The wives and mothers watch them outward 
bound, 
Praying their safe return. 



115 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

The gulls sweep round and round breasting 

the foam, 
Clamoring incessantly with shrilling cries, — 
Then, as the eve diraws on and the day dies. 
The setting sun flames out from amber skies. 
And the brown sails, turned scarlet, 
Swift fly home. 

Clovellyy Devonshire 
Mayy ig2i 



What memories thou hast of years gone by 

Old Abbey, sheltered near thy babbling 

Wye, 

That still has flowed from uplands to the sea 

Long ages before man had dreamed of thee. 

Or wandered here. 

Yet came a time with pious feeling fraught, 
When miracle in stone, that dream was 
wrought. 
And massive shaft rose high into the air 
With painted windows, traced, and colors 
rare 
That shed their glory down on the old Monks 
at prayer 
In worship mute. 

And fluted columns echoed with the sound 
Of chants that rose and fell, richly intoned — 

ii6 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

And censors swung — as incense floated high, 
Wreathing in clouds the vaults that touched 
the sky — 
Then floating downward, seemed to fade and 
die 
In the dim air. 

Yet now the centuries have gone and passed, 

Thou standest still, a massive ruin vast, 
Where sunbeams slant a-down thy open nave, 
And the moon shinest o*er thy architrave. 
While still the Wye her emerald foot-hills 
laves 
In murmuring song. 

And though through empty windows rooks 
are flying, 
Ghosts of the old dead Monks forever 
crying. 
Yet from thy wooded hills, the cuckooes 
calling. 
And through thy meadows sweet, the 
water's falling 
Fill me with feeling, heart and soul enthralling. 
Remembering thy past. 

Monmouthshire 

J^aslan Ca3S(tle 

Old ruined Castle, set twixt Wales and Eng- 
land, 
Strong redoubt, 



117 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

With thy Tower, " Melyn Gwent," with 

moat 
All round about, 
Thou lookest back on days of revelry 
When feast and song was rife, and mirth ran 

high. 

Yet stormy days thou hadst, when gathered 

here. 
The Royalists of England far and near 
Sought for thy shelter safe — 

Alas in vain! 
The Roundheads hemmed thee in, 

Thy warriors slain. 
Thyself destroyed — dismantled— 

Ne'er to rise again! — 
Now but the rooks their petty warfare make, 
And, midst thy silence, lonely echoes wake. 

Monmouthshire 
June 8, ip2i 

Hdfefrom **3iobe Cottase" to 

Bring to my heart a sense of gratitude 
Tho clearing wind, after a morn of rain; 
Breathe freshly on my soul, and let it echo 
The gentle spirit of the Past again: 
The paths where noble men of old have 
wandered 
My footsteps tread to-day, 

ii8 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Let me but feel their spirit's inspiration 
As on their paths I stray: — 
Arnold and Wordsworth, let me con their 
verses, 
And gather as I go 
Their love of woods and rills, pastures and 
mountains. 
The bleating flocks below. 
And clouds above that trail their fleecy- 
whiteness 
Around the mountain's brow. 

That so when I am gone I may not question 
If all my wanderings had been spent in vain. 
But from a grateful heart had given to others 
The quiet spirit of the past again. 

Grassmere 
Sept, /, ig2T 



**€ars( llabe tlTliep 6ut tKftep l^twc 

Hear the ringing, ringing, ringing 
Of the bells of old St. Paul's 
Clashing down upon the pavement. 
Ringing, swinging, swinging, ringing — 
As the music downward falls 
On the pavement near the portals; 
And the sound our heart enthralls 
Where the children feed the pigeons 
'Neath the steps below the walls. 



119 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Hark! the bells have ceased their calling, 
And the great clock booms the hour — 
While the choristers are trooping 
Up the steps below the towers — 
And the children feed the pigeons— 
And the city's traffic roars. 

Hark! the solemn organ pealing, 
Jewelled light is downward stealing, 
In the choir the boys are kneeling. 
Enter in and pray — 
While the city, like the ocean. 
Roars outside in swift commotion, 
Leave the din, and with devotion 
Enter in and pray. 

«. 

Hushed is all the din and roaring. 

As the music upward soaring 

Falls again: — with hearts adoring 

Bow your heads — and pray. 

London 
Sept, J, 1^21 



Ah, the bells and chimes of London! 

What is it they say? 
On this summer Sunday morning — 

Near and far away — 
Clashing down upon the pavements. 

Clamoring to the skies, 

120 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Tumbling, clanging, tossing, echoing 

As the music flies 
Far away across the river. 

Where it sinks and dies. 
Drowned in tumukof the city, 

With its tears and sighs. 

Old St. Martin's! how its meniories 

Stretch back far away 
To the fields among the daisies 

Where the children play, 
Sitting on the flowery meadows 

Making chains so gay 
Of the daisies scattered round them 

"Can it be?" you say. 

Ring your chimes out, old St. Martin's! 

There be those who hear — 
Through the dust and din of traffic 

Lend a listening ear — 
Though the crowd rush by unheeding. 

Though the fields are still receding. 
Though the times be drear. 

Down toward the city 

St. Mary le Strand 
Answers you merrily, 

While close at hand 
St. Clement Danes 

Clangs its belfry for all, 
Till it is answered 

By grand old St. Paul; 

121 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Down on the pavement 

Its music is flung 
Sheer from the towers 

Where its great bells are hung 
Take it or leave it! 

The heedless among — 
Children unheeding 

The pigeons are feeding — 
Ring away! Clang away! 

Though 'tis another day 
Than the far times 

When your first tunes were rung; 
Though none else listen 

Or heed you, you know 
You will be answered 

By "Mary le Bow"; 
Ring away! Clash away! 

Tell of another day. 

In the distance faintly heard 

Through the summer air 
The great Minster's bells aloft 

Summon us to prayer. 
Older it than all the rest. 

The Great Minster of the West. 

Hark! the booming of "Great Ben" 

Slowly striking! — it is ten! 

London 
Sept. jy igzi 



122 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

tKtoilfal&t in a ^urre? 'Village 

Thou seemest like a bloody cimeter, 

Thou crescent moon, low sinking in the West 

Through hazy skies; 
And the great trees like sentinels stand 
So black against the fading light, 
While from the cottage windows bright 
Gleams out a light along the little lane — 
The brook singeth itself to sleep with its 

refrain, 
And echoing and re-echoing once again 
The village chimes ring out into the night. 

Shere 

Sept, 6y ig2i 



Shadowy woods at noon tide, with the golden 

gleam 
Of the dales beyond them, through great tree 

trunks seen. 
And their arching branches, interlaced I 

ween 
Through the centuries, sleeping, while the 

bracken green 
Comes each Spring to wake them into leafage 

sheen, 
Nestling round their great boles for their 

shade, I deem. 



123 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Beech trunks white and silvery, stretching 

darkening arms. 
O'er shade last year's leafage, crumbling 

russet brown. 
Flecked with violet shadows as the sun glints 

down. 
Scotch firs tall and stately, with their branches 

red. 
Reach up toward the heavens from their leafy 

bed, 
Where the sun shines brightly on each dark 

crowned head. 

Gnarled oaks and chestnuts in great avenues. 
Hollies bright and glistening, mixed with 

hoary yew. 
Wait all day till eventide for the falling dew. 
Dreaming here I wandered, till the sun grew 

red. 
Till the shadows lengthened, and the moon 

instead 
Made the paths a dreamland where the fairies 

tread. 

Shere 

Sept. 7, ig2i 

a Jfatetoell 

Like a gleam of light I see you. 
Shores of England from afar. 
Where the water black and curling. 

Ever swirling. 

Sinks and rises. 



124 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

As the coast grows faint and dim, 
And the white chalk cliffs of Dover, 

Crossing over 
Gleam, and fade, and gleam again. 

Thus a vision will I see thee, 

Land of England, 
As my eyes grow dim 
With the haze of years departing — 
Village lanes and bubbling fountains. 
Mossy walls, pastures and mountains, 
As the place I left my heart in — 
Gleam — and fade — and gleam again. 

Crossing to Calais 
Sept. 12, 1^21 

ILt Comlier bu ^oleil en Pretagne 

Down sinks the Sun — 
And the sea grows pale 
As the land grows red: 
And the little lane wanders far down to the 

sea 
Twixt its hedges of hawthorne in sweet Brit- 
tany 
While the little birds twitter a farewell to 
me — 
And the moon overhead. 

Down drops the Sun — 
And the sea is all pearl. 
And its shores tinted red: 



125 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

And its beaches like sickles of gold seem to me, 
And St. Malo is gleaming afar o'er the sea, 
While its windows are flashing a farewell to 
me — 
And the moon overhead. 

Down goes the Sun — 
And the sea has grown grey. 
And the land no more red: 
But the bells from the village come softly to 

me. 
As the sound of the vespers floats over the 

sea, 
For they ring for the service in sweet Brittany 
With the moon overhead. 

St. Cast 

Sept,y 1^21 



A sweep of sand like a golden sickle. 
And the crested waves on the shore. 

And the azure pools where the water lingers 
As the tide sweeps out once more. 

A narrow lane with the hedges meeting. 

With but a peep of the blue. 
Tumbling tussocks of gorse and bracken, 

Aspen, hawthorne and yew. 

Rocky cliffs where the waves are breaking 
Stretching far to the sea — 



126 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Inland — orchards with apples laden — 
Voila! La Brittanie. 

St, Casty Bretagne 

Sept,y IQ2I 

^Qonttbe at ^t €dLsA 

Down drops the little lane twixt hedges high 

To meet the sea, 
*Mid ripening fruit of orchards fair 

In Brittany. 
The little waves beat softly on the shore, 

The air blows sweet; 
And stretching far, the yellow sands run round 

The cliffs to meet: 
And hark! amid the stillness of the noon 

Calling to us. 
The bells across the water sweetly sound — 

The Angelus! 

Bretagne 
Sept, JO, 1921 

Cbentibe— a Tiafibape be g>t* STacut 

Liquid fire, and pearl, and opal, 

Glimmering, shimmering, reaching far 
To the shores across the water 

Where the purple shadows are; 
And the flaming sky above them. 

Stretching wings of gold and grey 
Into heights of pearly azure — 

Far away — ah, far away — 



127 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

While the Convent bells are ringing, 
And the little waves are singing 

Round the bay — all round the bay. 

Bretagne 
Sept. JO, ig2i 

hyxnsizt anil imomins ®ibe— iHont 

Ribbons of gold and silver 

Winding far to the sea, 
Curving, retreating, advancing, 

Purling over the sand, 
Running to meet the tide-wave 

Rising to flood the land — 
Land that is fretted like bird's wings 

With the retreating sand. 

Just as the sun is sinking 

Setting the West aflame. 
Look! how the tide comes sweeping 

Onward and onward again 
Like to some monster creeping 

Over a sandy plain. 

Backward the golden rivers 

Running to meet the sea 
Sweep with the ruby deluge 

Back to the far countrie; 
Backward, and backward, and backward, 

The rivers are pressed to their source; 



128 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Onward, and onward, and onward, 
The tide sweeps on in its course — 

Till the Mount is an island 
Rising out of the sea. 

Marvel of marvels of man*s hand 
Out of God's marvelous sea — 

Marvel of marvels of man's art — 
Triumph of masonry. 

The river Couesron as it runs to meet the 
sea divides up into many little stream^s which 
cut their channels in circling curves over the 
waste of sand. The tide sweeps in over seven 
miles of this in two hours — sometimes faster 
than a horse can run. 

Or/., ig2i 



^unrtee at iMont ^t- iHitfjel 

The morning star still trembled 

Before the coming day 
In skies of pearly amber 

Above the clouds, all grey 
Save for the tinted lining 

That told the sun was shining 
In regions far away. 

The sands were black in shadow 
The gulls, all pearly white, 

Flapped joyously and circled 
Before the coming light 

129 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

Waiting the tides returning 

Throughout the darksome night. 
Now clamorous with delight. 

And twisted circling rivers 

Of amber and of pearl 
Shone softly through the shadows 

That darkened half the world. 
Then as the sky grew lighter, 

And ruby clouds shone brighter. 
The waters softly curled — 

And the great sea swept inland — 
Afar round "Tumbelaine," 

Then swiftly, swiftly coming 
Fell at my feet again 

Below the grand old Bastion 
The massive "Tour du Nord," 

Th§ highest of the ramparts 
That guard Mont St. Michel. 

Mont St, Michel 
Oct.y ig2i 



ij^nlp fte (Suite— anb iHe 

The stars put out their lamps an hour ago. 
And still the Abbey waits to greet the sun — 
But look! across the sands his fiery chariot 
wheels 

Do swiftly run, 
And flaming wings from out the dawn 

Do speed him on. 



130 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

I stand upon the **Tour du Nord*' — the gulls 

below — 
Both waiting till the tide comes in 

Across the sea; 
Afar, the waters creep round "Tumbelaine*' — 

Only the gulls — and me! 

The gulls are clamorous below, 
A blessed stillness reigns above 

" Ke-o— ke-o— ke-o— ke-o!" 
The stillness and the sound I love — 
I stand with listening ear 

Their cry to hear, 
Their clamorous wild cry — 

Only the gulls — and 1 1 

And as the waters come stealing. 
New beauty ever revealing. 
Cloud-wings are hastening the Dawn, 
Speeding her, speeding her on; 
And where the waters uncurl 
Necklaces — ruby and pearl — 
Rest on the sands dull and grey. 
Gifts from the sea far away, 

"Ke-oT* I heard a gull say 
Down in the shadows so grey 
As the tide came with the sea — 
"Look! what the sea gives to me." 

Mont St, Michel 

Oct,, Ip2I 



131 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

With one set purpose — never retreating — 

In sweeps the tide from the sea: 

With one set purpose — all else defeating — 

Up comes the sun o'er the lea: 

Cloud-wings are hovering 

O'er him uncovering 

His golden head, as we see 

Little pools glowing, 

Red rivers flowing 
Out from the far countrie. 

O'er them so massive, 

Steadfast and passive, 

St. Michel's Mont rises free. 

Mont St. Michel 
Oct,^ ig2i 

Smmigration in 1492 

Columbus went out on a little sea trip — 

Do you hear? 
He thought he would go on the "Saxonia" — 

Never fear! 
She's as steady a boat as any afloat, 

And when near 
To the Quarantine Station the doctor is sure 

To appear. 

Said the doctor to him, "You can't land here 
this Spring, 
Do you hear? 



132 



SEVEN YEARS AFTER 

YouVe a hole in your stocking, it simply 

Is shocking! 
Go back cross the water, 

Me dear.'* 

"Besides this, perhaps you're aware 
That who lands here will have to declare 

What he*s eaten this year. 

For it all must appear 
On his card in the Custom House here." 

Said Columbus to him, "By your life and 

your limb, 
I must land here this Spring. 

Is that clear? 
For I'm 'booked' ninety- two, 
So you must let me through, 
Or the histories will think it is queer; 

"And the time's nearly up — 
For the water was rough. 
And the 'Saxonia' — it is so slow!" 
Said the doctor to him, 
" I will let you pass then — 
The 'Saxonia' never could go!" 

The "Saxonia^' 
Oa., ip2i 



^33 



LBO 



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